Kicking the Can (9 page)

It felt good to walk and stretch his legs.

“I image you’re jet-lagged. Shall I wake Cala to prepare a meal, or do you wish to lie down?”

“A shower and rest is what I need.”

Mohammad led him through double doors. Drummond was embarrassed by the size and opulence of his accommodations.

“Who owns this place?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. He is a rich and powerful person. Good night, Mr. Drummond.”

“Call me Chris.”

“Very well, Mr. Drummond.”

34

N
atalya Baturina held out her hands, wrapping Drummond’s in a handshake, squeezing twice. She was of medium height and trim, with brown hair cut short at the neckline, longer wisps pulled forward in front of her ears framing her heart-shaped face. Her dark brown eyes were welcoming.

“Hello. My name is Natalya Baturina.”

“Chris Drummond…Pleased to meet you.”

“Hungry? I’ve made a traditional Russian dinner for us this evening. Talking with Cala, they’ve thought of everything, right down to stocking the larder with foods from our homelands. It’ll give us a chance to visit before the rest of the team arrives. Besides, I find cooking is great therapy.”

“Anything I can help with,” Drummond asked, as he sat down on a barstool behind a long, narrow counter overlooking the kitchen.

Baturina turned and smiled. “No thanks, it’s my treat.” She was wearing a long linen dress that hugged her body, with slits cut to the top of her calves. Her shoulders were exposed, but the dress was not revealing.

“I love to cook; it’s a hobby—but it’s always a chore to learn a new kitchen. This setup is amazing.”

Drummond was glad he packed the clothing he had accumulated from Tommy Bahama. For dinner he chose a blue silk shirt, linen slacks, and his leather sandals.

“On second thought, you can make me a gin and tonic. I already cut the lime—it’s on top of the counter next to the bar. Cala prepared iced tea if you’d prefer nonalcoholic.”

Drummond squeezed a lime and dropped it into the tonic water. He filled another glass with ice and set both on coasters. She pulled the pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator and poured his glass.

“Dinner’s in five minutes,” Baturina announced, turning spits of skewered meat and vegetables on the gas grill.

“Cala set a table for us near the slider leading onto the deck so we can enjoy the panoramic views of the ocean and sunset.” Drummond walked to the table and sat down. Baturina finished arranging the serving dishes on the table.

“This is called
Borshch
—beet soup,” Baturina said, pointing to the dish. “The reddish color is a symbol of Russia. I’ve prepared it with vegetables, and for this climate, a dollop of sour cream will be refreshing.

“These crepe-looking things are called
Blini
—Russian pancakes. You roll them up. We have a variety of fillings: cheese, jam, onions, and my favorite,
Ikra
, which is caviar.

“Russian kebabs are called
Shashlyk
. For dessert
Morozhenoe
—vanilla ice cream with chopped nuts.”

Baturina sat down, putting her cloth napkin in her lap.

“Bon appetite.”

“This looks delicious.”

Drummond spooned apricot jam onto a crepe and rolled it up. It felt good to be in conversation with another human. Lonesome during the airplane journey to the island, he missed Sarah and Barbara. When the contest was over and Drummond was back in Seattle alone, he knew the heartache would eat at him like cancer. He looked at the ocean and sunset, trying to push the dreadful thought out of his mind.

“How is Gorbachev viewed by the Russian people two decades after the Cold War?”

“Are you prepared to be here all night?” Baturina chuckled, and then her humor faded. “It’s a complex and multivalent story. Gorbachev will be remembered for
Perestroika
!” Baturina spoke with punch, “the movement to restructure our economic and political systems. We were caught up in the excitation of new ideals and opportunities—television footage of the Berlin Wall coming down, a heady time.”

Baturina used a knife to slide meat and vegetables off a skewer onto her plate. Drummond forked a piece of sirloin and grilled pineapple into his mouth.

“Gorbachev admitted he erred trying to reform the Communist Party. He’s gone on record saying the creation of a new party would have been favored. And he didn’t foresee Yeltsin as a threat. Missed opportunities—mistakes were made.”

“These kebobs are excellent.” Drummond stopped to swallow before speaking again. “The yellow and orange peppers are my favorites.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the meal.”

“It hasn’t been a total disaster. In the post-Soviet era, women have become more economically motivated. As a class, we’ve outperformed men. My degree in industrial psychology, IP, opened the doors to executive management at IBM Russia. I work with upper-level managers on leadership training, development, and team-building skills. Understanding what motivates people and how communication and human interactions affect behaviors and roles among team members is a discipline unto itself. Teams have to work through different stages to achieve high performance.”

Baturina and Drummond walked out on the deck to see the sun doused by the ocean.

“I have ideas, but I’m looking for suggestions…How can we pull together and do our best work?”

“Four weeks, ethnic and cultural differences, no previous work history—it’ll be challenging. Like all humans, most of us have issues. They gave me a file with select personal information. It’s incomplete. I’m not sure how helpful it will be.”

Drummond didn’t ask, and Baturina didn’t volunteer more information.

“Building trust is predicated on balancing a willingness to protect each person from perceived vulnerability, with an expectation others will reciprocate. Trust starts when individuals ‘unpack their bags’ and discover how their life experiences influence values and beliefs. Understanding at the lowest common denominator is how you build a foundation. It’s best done one-on-one. It’s essential you take the lead.”

Drummond admired Baturina for her honesty and forthright manner. They didn’t have time to play games, and her consultation seemed genuine.

“I recommend you meet with each team member, just as you did with me tonight. Your instincts are correct. You started with a probing question—Gorbachev.”

Drummond thought about Baturina’s responses. “What would you say to a shared meal—the entire team—later this week when everyone’s on the island?” Drummond asked.

“Funny you suggest that. I’ve been working on the menu. Cala said she has a lazy Susan with a forty-eight-inch diameter.”

35

C
hris Drummond smelled mineral spirits through the open door. He knocked twice.

“Who is it?”

“Chris Drummond.”

“Door open.”

Pan Jiang was standing in front of an easel, positioned to spy the panoramic vistas through oversized picture windows. Looking south, she saw the beach through thinned palm trees. Beyond, a stunted atoll stood sentry over the blue expanse. In her left hand, she held a white palette. Her right hand darted back and forth, the brush dabbing at globules of paint to create color. Jiang was tall. She stood barefoot on travertine tiles wearing khaki shorts and a dark tank top. The muscles in her calves gave her body athletic definition. She turned, studying him, her face expressionless. She did not speak. Her black hair was parted in the center and pulled back with a ribbon. She put down the brush and pushed strands of renegade hair behind her ears. The circumference of her wrists and arms, reed thin, reminded him of a swan. Her well-defined clavicle and long neck revealed her body definition was more gaunt than athletic. She turned back to the canvas.

“If you want sit down, upholstered seat in bay window is comfortable.” She pointed toward the window with the brush in her hand.

“You have favorite artist? I find answer reveal much about person.”

Drummond considered the question. Images of Sarah flooded his conscience; he fought to verbalize a response.

“When my daughter was in fifth grade, her teacher taught an artist awareness module. Each student chose a famous artist. They memorized biographical information and painted a rendering of the artist’s work. Ribbons were awarded for best artistic impression. Sarah selected Mary Cassatt. She’s the one artist I can speak of with detail.”

“Tell me about her work.”

“She was an American painter in the 1800s—an impressionist. Her works depict the lives of women, the special bond between mothers and children. Sarah picked Cassatt as a tribute to her mom.”

“Who’s your favorite artist?”

“Doesn’t my dossier tell?”

“No.”

“What does it tell?”

“You graduated at age twenty-six with an advanced degree in statistics. You live in Shanghai, where you’ve been working for five years. You received national recognition for your work with China’s largest state-owned utility…something to do with stochastic optimization.”

“Make me sound boring.”

“That wasn’t my impression.”

“You forecast energy demand based upon population growth and other independent variables, but what is the ‘stochastic’ piece?”

“Instead of arbitrary choosing value such as ‘best case’ or ‘worst case,’ we randomize values for independent variables. We do this by identifying distribution of known universe of value for each independent variable. A bell-shaped curve is example of distribution. Monte Carlo Simulation is example of stochastic modeling technique. Stochastic modeling shown to improve accuracy of forecasts—clear as mud puddle?”

“Yes.”

Drummond was transfixed by the rhythmic motion and soft swishing sound the brush made as it swept across the canvas.

“What does
Gao fen di neng
mean? It’s a phrase printed in your dossier, but there was no explanation.”

Jiang stopped painting. The brush was dipped in mineral spirits and meticulously wiped, an exercise she’d likely repeated thousands of times. She turned to face Drummond, her eyes watery, her face still expressionless.

In a high-pitched, forcible scream, she yelled—“Get hell out of here!”

Drummond, startled by her emotional outburst, jumped to his feet and sprinted toward the door, trying to put space between himself and Jiang. Before he passed through the doorjamb, a glass vase crashed into the wall, inches from his head; shards cut his neck and cheek.

36

P
eter Lowsley smiled, revealing the definition of his cheekbones. His bony grip felt like Drummond was shaking hands with a skeleton in college anatomy class.

“I could’ve guessed you’re a runner without reading your dossier.”

“At five feet eleven and one hundred thirty-five pounds, I break the scale. When you’re born and raised in Track Town, USA, any athlete with Prefontaine’s body type is expected to be a distance runner. That sounds like I was pressured into it—I wasn’t. I love to run.”

“I don’t run competitively, but I do enjoy a good cardio workout. If you’re up for it, why don’t we run a lap or two around the island? It’ll give us a chance to visit,” Drummond said.

“Seriously? It’s eighty-five degrees outside.”

“I enjoy the heat. I run late afternoons back home.”

“I prefer to run in the coolness of the morning-
ceteris paribus-
all other things being equal,” Lowsley said.

“There’s a walking trail encircling the island—cobblestone, packed sand, some of it’s boardwalk. I ran before breakfast. It’s five miles round trip: my time was 30:10, and I average six-minute miles. Beautiful views.”

“My pace is closer to nine-minute miles. Sure you’re up for it?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll see you out front in fifteen minutes—at the fountain in the middle of the plaza leading down to the boathouse—we can pick up the trail there.”

“Sounds good.”

Lowsley stretched: his left leg extended waist-high, resting on top of the fountain reservoir; he bent forward, head down, hands touching his toes. Drummond leaned into the fountain basin, keeping his right heel on the ground, flexing his left knee until he felt the pull in his calf muscle. He repeated the stretching with his left foot back. He then crossed his feet, bent at the waist, and touched the ground, legs extended.

“I ran with Jack Dain this morning—he’s a curious individual. He has a sharp eye for details. I think he was using our run to recon the island. I couldn’t decide if he made me feel more, or less, secure. I guess I’m glad he’s on our team. We’ll need his language skills, and he’s someone you’d want with you in a foxhole. I wouldn’t mess with him.”

“I’ve not met him. We have time on the schedule tomorrow afternoon.”

“He’s convinced this place is part of the World Islands,” Lowsley said.

“What are the World Islands?”

“A man-made archipelago. If he’s right, we’re off the coast of the United Arab Emirates.”

“Dubai?”

“Yep.”

“See the tall structure on the horizon?”

Lowsley pointed off in the distance. Drummond squinted.

“Maybe, it’s hard to see with the haze.”

“Dain believes it’s Burj al Arab—a seven-star luxury hotel. He estimates we are nineteen miles from the mainland. We appear to be on the island farthest out.”

“The climate supports his speculation.”

They started jogging. Lowsley’s gate was more of a glide—efficient, no wasted effort.

“Spend any time on the Oregon coast?”

“Family vacations…I’m partial to the dunes in southern Oregon. Cannon Beach was nice, but it’s become another California. They’ve allowed moneyed developers to cloud rational expectations.”

“Why did you pursue a doctorate in health care economics?”

“My dad worked in the forest products industry. The cyclicality of the industry in the 1980s led us to believe health care was more resistant to economic swings. When the market turned down, he worked twice as hard to eke out a living. His work ethic has been the most positive influence on my adult life.”

Drummond wiped the sweat on his forehead with a cloth, wishing he had put on a hat, but the heat felt great. It had been more than a week since his last workout. He felt better, physically, when he worked out at least three times a week. They were a mile into the run, and Lowsley hadn’t broken a sweat.